


little brother of war

by SashaSea (SHCombatalade)



Series: coin toss universe [2]
Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6100963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHCombatalade/pseuds/SashaSea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The buzzer sounds the end of the season and the coach gives a short, sincere speech bidding farewell to their starting striker. He ignores questions regarding a replacement, which do little to dispel the rumors running rampant (<i>it’s Neil</i>, they catch like sparks of fire on dry kindling, <i>Neil Josten is trading to the Knights</i>). They’ve tried asking him seventeen times in the past four days, always met the same response. “If we were getting Neil-fucking-Josten,” he tells them, because no comment is as good as a yes, “do you really think I would keep that to myself?”</p>
<p>Later, in the locker room, he tells the team. “So we’re getting Neil-fucking-Josten.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	little brother of war

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Войнушка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13503756) by [jana_nox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jana_nox/pseuds/jana_nox), [WTF_Young_Adult_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Young_Adult_2018/pseuds/WTF_Young_Adult_2018)



The buzzer sounds the end of the season and the coach gives a short, sincere speech bidding farewell to their starting striker. He ignores questions regarding a replacement, which do little to dispel the rumors running rampant ( _it’s Neil_ , they catch like sparks of fire on dry kindling, _Neil Josten is trading to the Knights_ ). They’ve tried asking him seventeen times in the past four days, always met the same response. “If we were getting Neil-fucking-Josten,” he tells them, because _no comment_ is as good as a yes, “do you _really_ think I would keep that to myself?”

Later, in the locker room, he tells the team. “So we’re getting Neil-fucking-Josten.”

No one cheers. “He’s a great player, but,” begins one of the dealers. She purposefully does not glance to the backliner at her right, nor to the baleful eyes trained on the back of her skull. “Is that a good idea?”

The coach blinks dark eyes once. Twice. “You’re all idiots,” he leaves them with.

* * *

The news breaks three weeks later at a press conference in the Knights’ home stadium; the room is small. Windowless. Easy to control the people allowed in - and the information allowed out. “We are very grateful,” he begins slowly. No one is looking at him, instead trained on the blank-faced brunet beside him. “To confirm that Mr. Josten is joining the Knights.”

The sea of reporters, crammed too many into the too small room, surges with noise; it’s impossible to distinguish any one voice. The coach attempts to gesture one by one by one - questions follow on the heels of the one before, all but tripping over them, like overeager children. The only word they can pluck from the maelstrom is _Minyard._ Neil leans across the mic to interrupt the coach, voice gone flat with boredom. “Does anyone have any questions that _aren’t_ about the Knights’ current goalkeeper?”

A hand near the back appears as a female reporter gestures for his attention. ESPN-X. He remembers her. “Yeah,” she begins, lipstick too pink against her face; reporters are sharks, he thinks. It should be red. “How are your cats?”

He stares at her, and for a moment he looks like someone else entirely. Older. Crueler. There’s always been a sharpness to the angles of his face, but now there’s a razor-like edge to the set of his gaze as well. He stares at her and she remembers those years old photos of a much younger face with much older eyes (and of another story from the same time, of another man with danger in his smile, and they had never published his name but they’d printed his face. _This_ face). Then he smiles, and he doesn’t look like a predator. He looks like a young man barely twenty-five, and she releases the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “They’re good,” he laughs, appraisal in his eyes. “How’s Greg?”

She smiles, and nods, and closes her mouth.

* * *

The first practice with the new lineup, Andrew returns a shot directly into Neil’s stomach; he doubles over, winded.

As soon as his breath returns, he laughs.

* * *

Ten minutes remaining in the practice, Neil makes it within a few feet of the goal ( _four five_ ) and elbows a backliner in the solar plexus ( _six seven_ ) to line up a shot he knows he can’t make. “We should get a dog,” he calls to Andrew instead, the German tugging like a grin at the corner of his lips.

And Andrew’s face goes soft and surprised and _seething_ , eyes flinty behind his mask, and his grip shifts on the racquet - defense to offense. In the split second of time it takes for the tenuously constructed levies around his violence to break, Neil has snapped a shot inches past his shoulder; the buzzer sounds, and the silence is heavy. “Never mind,” he continues in English, ignoring the way the team is staring like he has instead disconnected the head from his spine. “I hate dogs.”

Andrew throws the ball at his head. “I hate _you_ ,” he snarls.

* * *

One of the dealers throws an arm around his shoulders. “I change my mind,” she tells him through a smile that is mostly teeth. “This is a great idea.”

* * *

The first game with the new lineup, Neil drops to the locker room bench beside Andrew; he lightly kicks his toes against Andrew’s shin. “One.”

Andrew shoves his foot away. “No.”

The other starting striker, Ellie, eyes the conversation like she’s deciding how much distance to leave herself; instead, she laces her shoes a bit tighter. Neil pretends not to notice the way she angles her body to purposefully keep them in the corner of her vision. “It’s boring,” he sighs, a hand splayed against the metal surface of the bench in support. His fingers are exactly seven inches from Andrew.

Andrew shifts. Six inches. “Isn’t it always?”

* * *

The game ends at five-one. Most fans swear that Andrew didn’t even try to stop the single point.

* * *

Andrea Palmer is in the front row of the after-match interviews. She doesn’t bother raising her hand; she’s had his attention since he sat down. “That was a pretty brutal victory,” she doesn’t couch her opinion in a question this time. He takes it as a compliment. “Especially against your old team.”

Neil laughs that same, simple laugh that makes him into a stranger. “That’s why they got the point,” he tells her.

“Feeling sentimental?” Her lipstick is red this time.

Blood in the water, and he shrugs. “I owed them one from last time.”

* * *

Four games later and Ellie moves from a five-locker distance to only three. No one comments on it.

* * *

They play Matt’s team and it’s every reason he fell in love with the game all those years ago. There’s a hum in the air from the moment he enters the building, a static that dances across his skin, and when the teams finally hit the court for a warm-up it feels like he’s drunk on it. The crowd yells, individual sounds lost to a wave of vibration that he can feel beneath his feet; it ebbs and surges like the arena itself is alive, breathing in time.

“Hey Neil,” and there’s no hiding his smile, not with Matt facing him from the first-court marker. It’s the first time any of the pro stadiums have felt like home. “Twenty dollars says that they try and get the Foxes together for a post-game interview.” A lot has changed, but never this - they still bet on everything.

He shrugs. “Forty says they don’t.”

After the game he accepts the pair of crisp twenty dollar bills from Matt with his predator’s smile, and Matt sighs in defeat. “I feel like I should have seen this coming.”

Andrew tugs the bills from Neil’s hand. “One day you’ll stop betting against me.”

* * *

The next game they play, a striker from the away team botches his shot and the dealer - Magda - calls for the pass. “Andrew!” She’s already moving before he responds, and the ball all but lands in her net.

It’s the first time they haven’t called him Minyard. After they win, he makes eye contact with Magda during the celebrations and offers one of his least-threatening smiles.

* * *

Cameras flash before the players have even made the locker room; somewhere past the strobes of photography, they can barely make the rumble of questions. Magda leans her mouth as close to Neil’s ear as she dares. “Are we live? Or can I tell them to fuck off?”

He smiles his predator’s smile and leans closer with a response. “I don’t think that’s mutually exclusive,” and it startles a laugh out of her. The noise draws a flurry of cameras click-click-flashing, and they’ve both been in the game long enough to know the vultures have found their front page image (It’s a good photo. They face each other with matching smiles and madness in their eyes, and the next day there’s a printed copy taped to the locker room wall. The photo doesn’t stay lonely for long).

On Magda’s other side, Andrew hides a snort in his glove. “Don’t talk to him,” and his voice is sharp but his gaze is not; his least threatening offer. “He’s a terrible influence.”

* * *

They play Kevin’s team and Andrew doesn’t allow a single shot during the half he plays.

During the substitution, the backliner ( _Clark_ , he introduces himself on Neil’s first day like the last time they saw each other hadn’t ended in blood and bruises. _We good._ ) claps him on the back. “Fuck yeah, man.”

* * *

After the game Ellie drops to the bench beside them. “I… We’ve all been wondering for awhile now, but you’re both so…” She doesn’t say how they are, just waves her hand in a complex gesture. Neil thinks he understands anyway. “There’s no easy way to ask this,” she tries again, and never once glances at the crowd that has gathered - most of the team has made their way over, standing in a semi-circle of silent support behind her. “So I’m just going to come right out with it.”

Andrews shifts. Five inches.

Her eyes focus on something or someone over their shoulders. “Do you guys want to come for drinks with us?”

Neil laughs. Ellie reminds him of Allison, the same steel wrapped in silk, and she’s as ruthless off the court as she is on. “At Ragg’s?”

Andrew leaves him to deal with both of their bags. “Don’t challenge him to darts,” he tells Ellie, kicking at Neil’s leg as he passes. “He cheats.”

* * *

“So I gotta ask,” Clark leans across a table that’s far too small for the seven of them, dodging empty glasses like a mine field; Andrew absently moves one out of range of his left elbow. He smiles a drunken thank you before turning the question back to Neil. “How the fuck do you cheat at darts?”

Neil takes a sip of his beer before passing it to Andrew, wordlessly exchanging it for the cigarette. It’s the same at practice, jackets for gear, or after games, racquets for water. “You aim for your opponent,” he smiles, face serene.

Clark blinks. “You’re fucking with me.” He blinks again, turning to Andrew, seeking confirmation in the set of his smirk. “He’s fucking with me.”

Andrew grins.

* * *

It’s a local reporter who surprises them after practice; none of the team are particularly hard to find, but they’re not particularly welcoming either. It’s a rare occurrence for the press to approach them outside the safety of a match (the fans are a different story. Neil had signed an autograph for a driver at a red light once, and then again for the cop that pulled the driver over afterwards). “Neil,” he calls like he’s greeting a friend, all forced enthusiasm and frantic waving. He doesn’t address Andrew. “How do you like playing for the Knights?”

Neil leans into the microphone with a lazy, careless gesture that is set at odds with the sharp smile on his face. “It’s the worst,” he says without inflection, and the reporter nods like he doesn’t know what to do with the information.

* * *

The next time the press catches them, Ellie is with them. They’re in line at Starbucks.

The woman asks for a photo, which ends up across the far reaches of the internet by the end of the day; each of them is carrying two coffees, and Ellie is wearing her old Ravens jersey and a Fox orange beanie over her curls. None of them are smiling.

(It ends up on the wall anyway.)

* * *

It’s the last game of the season and they’re tied for the championship. They’re also behind three points in the second half, and the coach motions for him at the substitution; he’s got two working legs and a working respect for the man, so he jogs onto the court. Andrew leaves the goal before he’s in position.

He doesn’t go to Neil’s side.

Instead he exits the court entirely, appearing beside the coach with a smile on his lips and a left hook across his jaw.

(The coach goes down, and goes down _hard_. Later, once the flashes of the cameras and the yells from the crowd have died down for the night, he growls out a gruff _thanks_  and avoids Andrew for a few weeks.)

“Andrew!” a few others call his name but it’s Neil who ducks inside his grip, grabbing him by either side of the helmet to force his gaze; it takes three seconds too long for the recognition to clear his eyes. “Andrew, I’m-”

“I swear to god,” the words rasp out of his throat like he’s in pain, and his voice is clenched like his fists, “if you say ‘I’m fine’ I am going to slit your fucking throat myself.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not broken,” Neil finishes. It doesn’t help. “And I’ve played with worse.”

Andrew rears back, jerking his helmet free from Neil’s grip. “I _remember_ ,” he says coldly. Some nights the too-clear images of his life are a curse, a crushing weight on his chest - he _remembers_. But he has other memories now too, softer ones, and he reaches two fingers out to press into Neil’s wrist; Neil doesn’t flinch. “You shouldn’t play.”

Seven years and a lifetime ago, Neil made the same decision. “Never stopped me before.” Andrew punches him in the opposite arm (hard enough to leave a bruise, but he angles the shot so it won’t rock Neil’s body into the plexiglass. He doesn’t release his grip on the injured wrist until Neil steadies his footing), but follows him back onto the court.

* * *

The press is on their best behavior later, probably due to the coach’s iced jaw and the impressive wall that is Clark looming directly behind Neil’s chair, arms crossed and eyes bright with a challenge that no one is willing to accept. Andrew sits at the end of the table, silent, and follows the nurse’s murmured directions to splint Neil’s wrist.

Eventually the silence gives way to the questions that have been burning unspoken agony across lips all afternoon. “So,“ and the reporter that spoke looks helplessly over to Andrea beside him; she grins before turning her back, leaving him alone under the scrutiny of the entire team. Blood in the water. “Does this mean that the Minyard-Josten rivalry is over?”

Neil starts to lean forward, into the mic, before a hand against his chest presses him back ( _Don’t move_ , Andrew hisses, and a smile brushes Neil’s face at the vehemence in his voice. _Fucking idiot_. The tirade continues in quiet harmony to Neil’s response). “Nope,” he says, and pops the final consonant obnoxiously. Ellie rolls her eyes beside him.

( _It’s about to be_ , Andrew hisses again, reaching up to tug at Neil’s hair for his attention. _If you don’t **stop fucking moving**_.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Coin Toss Universe by SashaSea [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366892) by [Rhea314 (Rhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea314)




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